“Pardieu! you are right. I am a rascal and in my dotage; I am an unhappy wretch grown old; a tent-cord untwisted, a pierced cuirass, a boot without a sole, a spur without a rowel;—but do me the pleasure to add one thing.”
“What is that, my dear Monsieur d’Artagnan?”
“Simply say: ‘Mazarin was a pitiful wretch.’”
“Perhaps he is dead.”
“More the reason—I say was; if I did not hope that he was dead, I would entreat you to say: ‘Mazarin is a pitiful wretch.’ Come, say so, say so, for love of me.”
“Well, I will.”
“Say it!”
“Mazarin was a pitiful wretch,” said Raoul, smiling at the musketeer, who roared with laughter, as in his best days.
“A moment,” said the latter; “you have spoken my first proposition, here is the conclusion of it,—repeat, Raoul, repeat: ‘But I regret Mazarin.’”
“Chevalier!”